


Liability

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pre-Relationship, Written after The Sign of Three but before His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three days after the wedding, Mycroft decides he should check on Sherlock. He brings Sherlock a small gift... Written after The Sign of Three but before His Last Vow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liability

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Korean now available here, courtesy of ahimsa: http://blog.naver.com/ahimsa93/220003743629

**Liability**

 

Mycroft stopped at the top of the stairs, faced with the unusually closed door to his brother’s flat. The flat, he reminded himself, which was now solely his brother’s. All was silent within. Silence was rarely a good sign where Sherlock was concerned. He’d had a thousand anxious thoughts concerning his brother for months now – well, years, a lifetime, if he was honest, but this was different – and he’d thought that perhaps a visit was warranted. 

Their relationship had improved somewhat since Sherlock’s return. Mycroft had begrudgingly conceded his respect for the enormity of the task which his brother had undertaken and succeeded in doing; the two-year process of rooting out and dismantling every last part of Moriarty’s network had not been an easy one. He’d subjected himself to every manner of unpleasantness, from basic personal hygiene for the sake of disguise to downright torture. He’d been imprisoned no fewer than seven times in different countries, become functionally fluent in six languages beyond those which he already spoke (German, French, Latin, and Greek), and single-handedly eliminated the bulk of many countries’ Most Wanted lists. He’d only called on Mycroft toward the end, the one time he’d got really stuck. And in return for Mycroft’s help, Sherlock had become decidedly more conciliatory, although that was likely a facet of the larger issue that was presently concerning Mycroft: Sherlock had let his defences down, let himself become far too vulnerable. They had spoken of this off and on over the years; it was a recurring theme. If Sherlock was going to put himself into the positions which he so regularly did in his chosen line of work, the fewer personal liabilities he had, the better. Mycroft had said it over and over again, variations on the theme of _He who travels fastest travels alone_. To keep himself free of attachments that could compromise him. _Caring is not an advantage._

Perhaps the two years’ solitude had worn away at his resolve. Mycroft had been genuinely alarmed by Sherlock’s ridiculous talk of _goldfish_ ; indeed the notion that he was not only not defending his own position to have turned his back on Mycroft’s advice but was endeavouring to convince Mycroft to do the same was upsetting. It was illogical and sentimental and the choice had obviously done his brother no good. It had started long before Sherlock’s two-year disappearance, however: it started the day his brother crossed paths with John Watson, his former flatmate and the current bone of Mycroft’s contention. Though, to be fair, had Sherlock simply taken his advice, he wouldn’t be in the position he was now in. Watson had done what any of the other goldfish would do, behaved precisely as expected. If Sherlock was surprised or grieved by it now, he had only himself to blame. 

Mycroft suppressed a sigh. He could knock, he supposed, but it wasn’t as though Sherlock would actually come and let him in. Though, Mycroft revised, that could have changed, too. Sherlock had gone so far as to start telephoning him somewhat regularly since his return, even desperate enough to call him from the reception three nights ago. If he’d been that hard-pressed for company, he _was_ in a bad way. He debated briefly in front of the door, admitting to himself that he was concerned about what he might find inside. He decided to compromise: he gave a perfunctory knock, then turned the knob and let himself in. 

Sherlock lay on the sofa, limbs limp, but he was awake, Mycroft instantly noted with relief. A cigarette butt lay smoking on the edge of a saucer on the coffee table but his surreptitious, meticulous sweep of the surrounding area could detect no trace of the varnished Moroccan case containing the old syringe. His thorough monitoring had shown no sign of Sherlock relapsing since his return, but if ever there was a danger time, this was it. And he was smoking, which in the past had been a frequent (though variable) precursor to it. He didn’t react to Mycroft coming in. His legs were sprawled untidily on the sofa, one arm lying across his abdomen, the other dangling beside the sofa. His eyes were open, lips slightly pressed together. He looked both ridiculously young, much the way he’d looked in his early twenties, yet also older than Mycroft had ever seen him look. The very fine lines under his eyes that normally only sprang into relief in laughter or particular facial expressions were there even in rest now, visible in the daylight filtering in through the net curtains. 

“You’re awake?” Mycroft said, for lack of a better way to begin. It came out abruptly, more so than he’d intended. 

“You can see that I am.” Sherlock was listless, still unmoving. 

Mycroft waited a moment, then went to sit down in the chair he normally occupied when there. John’s chair, Sherlock would probably still call it, but John didn’t live there any more. “Are you clean?” he asked. Pointed. Direct. No point in prevaricating. 

Sherlock sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.” His long fingers crawled over the coffee table until they found the cache of cigarettes tucked into the Persian silk slipper. Ridiculous way to store cigarettes, Mycroft thought. Sherlock extracted one and lit it with a lighter retrieved from a pocket in his dressing gown. Smoking regularly, then. “What are you doing here, Mycroft?”

He asked with very little interest whatsoever, but Mycroft was used to that. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure how to broach the subject, though Sherlock had likely already deduced it. Approach with caution, he supposed. “You left your violin at the reception,” he said. “I’m told Ms Hooper has it in her keeping.”

“Oh.” Sherlock sounded a touch startled; he’d clearly not noticed its absence, then. Another bad sign. “That was good of her to take it,” he says. The tone is very slightly less monotone, but he subsides into silence, save for the sounds of his smoking: whispered inhalation, momentary pause, sighed exhalation. 

“You left the reception early,” Mycroft said, still aiming to sound conversational. Leaving space for Sherlock to respond, should he choose to do so. 

There was another small silence. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Sherlock didn’t even bother shrugging. “You know how these events are. Too many people. Too long. Too crowded. All rather boring.”

“Sherlock.” He was sharp. “Don’t try that on me. It doesn’t work.”

Sherlock subsided into sulky silence. He was already at the end of the cigarette and used the last of it to light a new one. “What are you trying to make me say?” he asked finally, gaze still fixed on the ceiling. 

Mycroft changed tacks. “I’m not here to gloat,” he said quietly. “But I _did_ tell you not to get involved.”

Sherlock’s brow creased ever so slightly. Mycroft wished he would scowl or glare or – something, anything, just react more fully. This listless drooping was worse than explicit anger or frustration. He knew Sherlock’s depressive moods far too well. Anger was better than apathy every time. “I’m not involved,” he said, in that same, detached tone. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Referring to the fact that John and Mary were on their honeymoon, while Sherlock remained behind in London. Mycroft sighed. “I meant emotionally,” he said, pronouncing the word was a touch of distaste. He paused, but Sherlock didn’t respond, either to deny it or correct him. Mycroft softened slightly. “Look,” he said. “Sherlock. I’m not here to say that I told you so, though I _did_. I told you hundreds of times that caring was not an advantage, that opening yourself to the liability of sentimentality was always going to be a terrible idea. You were always such an acutely sensitive child that the only option was to shut it all off or be ruined by your own emotional weakness. You know that. And you were doing so well until John came into your life. I _told_ you, all along, that he would get married and leave you one day. That you couldn’t keep him. That having him around would provide a constant weak point for your enemies, a dangerous liability. I thought that perhaps the time away would have strengthened your resolve once more, but as soon as you returned it became clear to me that just the opposite was occurring. The goldfish conversation. Really, could you have been more obvious? You tried to make it about me, but it was transparently clear that you were talking about yourself, because you were lonely for him.”

Mycroft waited again for Sherlock to make some form of response, but he remained steadfastly silent. Mycroft went on, a little less stridently. “I know I used to tease a little about your involvement with him, but it was never really serious, though I was always concerned that it would be. Because John was always so resolutely determined to date woman after unsuitable woman, it never occurred to me that you would ever allow yourself to make the disastrous error of falling for him when it could only ever be unrequited. I thought that you would be capable of ruling yourself logically once you realised it was an impossible endeavour.”

Now Sherlock glared at last, turning his head in Mycroft’s direction. “Fuck off, Mycroft. It’s not as though it was a conscious choice.”

Mycroft lifted his brows. “It should have been,” he said simply. “The mind must rule every function of the body.”

“Emotions are part of the mind,” Sherlock countered, but it was a rebellious mutter, made more to himself than to Mycroft. 

“Leading up to the wedding, I saw it growing,” Mycroft said, ignoring this. “I became increasingly worried, but you seemed to be handling it so well on the outside, at least.” He looked over at his brother and allowed his sincerity to show. “But I didn’t come here to lecture you,” he said quietly. “I came to see how you were doing.”

Sherlock exhaled deeply, lifting the cigarette back to his lips. “I’m fine,” he said tonelessly. “Stop worrying.”

“I can’t help it. You’re not fine. Have you ever experienced this before?” Mycroft asked. “A broken heart?”

Sherlock’s brows drew together. “And what would you know about that?” he asked crossly. 

“Nothing of firsthand experience,” Mycroft admitted, shrugging. “But you love him. Any idiot can see that. And he just married someone else.”

“God, stop it, I _know_ that!” Sherlock shouted suddenly, feet swinging down to the floor as he sat up. He glared daggers at Mycroft. “All I want is to stop _thinking_ about it for five minutes; is that too much to ask?”

He was furious and Mycroft was taken aback. He honestly hadn’t thought that Sherlock would admit it. Several beats passed between them, their eyes locked. Mycroft held up a hand, conceding. “All right. I’m sorry,” he said. “But you see why I was worried.”

Sherlock looked away and Mycroft was horrified to see a sheen of liquid in his eyes. He blinked, clearing them. “With the wedding to plan, I could focus on that,” he said. “Just – having something to do made it easier. Sort of.”

“And now that it’s over, you have nothing to think about except exactly what you’ve been avoiding,” Mycroft said, but he kept his tone kind. “Nothing from Scotland Yard?”

“No.”

Mycroft hesitated, then lifted his briefcase to his knees. “I have something for you,” he said. “It may make you feel a little better.”

“I doubt that very much,” Sherlock said, slightly acidic, stubbing out the cigarette in the saucer. 

“Wait and see, brother mine.” Mycroft gave him a sly smile and withdrew a file. “I’ve been doing some research.” A considerable amount, in fact. 

“Oh?” Sherlock was bored, still looking away from him. His fingers were loosely interlocked between his knees. His hair was a fright; he looked as though he hadn’t showered in days. 

“Yes,” Mycroft said. He paused for dramatic emphasis, then said, “Ms Morstan is a liar.”

Sherlock looked at him then, his eyes kindling with actual interest for the first time in probably days. Without correcting Mycroft on the name change, he said, “What do you know that I don’t? I knew that, but… what have you got there?”

Mycroft held the file out in Sherlock’s direction. “Be my guest,” he said grandly. 

Sherlock got up and came over, took it and dropped into his armchair, rifling through the papers. “An affair,” he said. “How unoriginal.” Then he exploded in unexpected vehemence, “How _dare_ she!”

Mycroft was taken aback by his reaction. “I would have thought you’d be pleased,” he said. “It gives strength to your side of the argument.”

“How dare she do that to _John_ ,” Sherlock reiterated, eyes blazing, mouth tense. The photograph in his hand was actually shaking with the force of his reaction. Then his head snapped up. “What do you mean, ‘my’ side of the argument? There’s no argument. No conflict. There never has been. John has never been torn about marrying Mary, has never demonstrated any sign of having mixed feelings about it. There’s no clause for hope on my part whatsoever.”

Mycroft considered his response carefully, letting the words spin out in his head before delivering them. “I just mean,” he said deliberately, “that certain parties would disagree with you. If we are speaking only about overt signs, I would tend to agree, unfortunately. However, this is hardly a clear-cut, black and white issue, as any psychologist could tell you. Sexuality, I’m told, can be a fluctuating thing. Doctor Watson certainly expresses unusual levels of affection toward you, both physical and emotional, atypical of a stereotypical heterosexual man. Mrs Hudson tells me that manifested rather more clearly than usual when inebriated; she says she came in on the two of you asleep on the stairs on the night of his stag ‘do’, as you would put it, and that later when she brought a client in, you were all but in each other’s laps. The case for repressed emotional or sexual attraction can be made in no uncertain terms. Besides which, I have witnessed for myself the lengths to which your Watson will go for you. He literally fights your battles, would sacrifice himself for you fifty times over without battling an eyelash.”

Sherlock thought about that, eyes on the file folder, unseeing. “He’s a soldier,” he said after a moment or two. “He’s conditioned to behave that way. For anyone.”

“ _Not_ for anyone,” Mycroft corrected gently. “Rather more for you, I should think.” He nodded at the file. “Go on. There’s more.”

Sherlock refocused on the file. Something came across his features that looked rather like… it was difficult to read. Disappointment? He looked as though something he saw was absolutely crushing him. “It’s not his child,” he said, voice tight. “Oh, God, Mycroft.”

He looked so bleak, so upset, that Mycroft experienced a small, extremely private epiphany: so that was what love looked like. True love: Sherlock was devastated on John’s behalf at the thought that the child he was anticipating was not his own, regardless of the fact that it would certainly be the nail in the coffin entombing John’s marriage to Mary, mindful only of the pain it would bring to the man he loved. Mycroft felt odd, and after a moment’s reflection realised that he felt moved – yes, profoundly moved by this. He almost wanted to comfort Sherlock. Yet as far as Sherlock was concerned, it was good news. It should be good news. It meant that there was hope for him to have the thing that he so desperately, transparently wanted. Mycroft had finally conceded to himself that lectures about liability and compromise were simply of no use; Sherlock had, whether he wanted to or not, conceded to the force of his feelings for John and allowed himself to become a person who felt things, cared for people. And since that was the case, then Mycroft had decided that he had no choice but to accept it and do everything in his power to help him. When he opened his mouth to speak, it was in a different tone than he’d heard himself use before. “No,” he said, uncharacteristically gentle. “It’s not John’s child. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“John,” Sherlock said, very softly. “He’ll be so – ” He stopped, looked up at Mycroft. “Do you think he’ll leave her?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t know. I would, but I’m not John. He gave his word, but when the other person breaks theirs before the vow is even made, is not the entire vow nullified?”

Sherlock’s eyes dropped back into the file, shifting papers. “I made them both a vow,” he said. “The baby, too. I didn’t know. I didn’t see the signs.”

“You were preoccupied.” Mycroft was magnanimous, offering Sherlock an excuse. 

“I knew she was a liar; I knew there were secrets. I just didn’t know what they were, or what scale on which they occurred.” Sherlock turned another page. “It’s this one? The father?”

Mycroft nodded. “She was seeing multiple men at different times, but based on – evidence collected from their flat and the deduced start of the pregnancy, yes. Frankly, I’m surprised that John hasn’t figured it out for himself; my findings show that he was using contraception regularly.”

Sherlock nodded. “I knew that. I just assumed there was a margin for error. There always is, isn’t there? No method is one hundred percent certain.”

“She was ridiculously foolish,” Mycroft said. “All those men, all those possibilities. It’s positively offensive to think that she thought she could fool everyone.”

Sherlock stared into the cold fireplace. “I thought she loved John. I really did.”

“It’s possible that she does,” Mycroft said. “Quite possible. But this is a problem.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he said. He looked back at Mycroft. “It’s… a lot to take in. Thank you for bringing this.”

Mycroft felt almost startled. Sherlock rarely thanked him for anything. “Yes,” he said. He got to his feet and held his hand out for the file. “Shall I take that? You won’t want John knowing that you know. I trust you’ll be able to keep that much from him.”

Sherlock nodded automatically. “Yes, of course. I shouldn’t know. Or let on that I know.” He closed the file and stood, handing it to Mycroft. “He’ll be devastated,” he said, lines appearing between his eyes. 

“But he’ll have you,” Mycroft said. “And I assume you’ll time things carefully. Don’t rush it. Let him come to you for comfort and then let things progress as they will.”

Sherlock nodded. “I suppose, yes,” he said, fidgeting with the sash of his dressing gown, which hung loosely by his side. “Not that I suppose that _you’re_ any expert on the subject, but it’s really not my area at all.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched. “Best study up,” he advised. “You’ve chosen to make it your area. Follow your instincts.” He turned and walked to the door and stopped, looking back. Sherlock stood there in his pyjamas and dressing gown, looking slightly lost and unsure of himself. “Call me, if you want,” he offered. “Just if you’re bored.” 

Sherlock smiled at him, just a slight smile, but it was worth all of the effort Mycroft had gone to in order to procure the evidence that he’d been working on gathering for the past three days. He should have started that sooner; Morstan had passed his initial security checks, but she’d been clever, very clever. “I have your number,” Sherlock said. 

“Indeed,” Mycroft returned. He turned and went down the stairs. The Rolls Royce was still waiting for him on the pavement, an agent with a medical degree on standby as well as Anthea (he’d been half-afraid of an overdose, after all). As the car pulled away from Baker Street he found himself thinking of the days when Sherlock was a small, overly precocious child, constantly climbing onto unstable surfaces and setting toxic materials on fire and thought that this new territory of emotion was every bit as volatile and dangerous for his brother. As he had wished back when Sherlock was seven, he found himself still wishing thirty years later that he could prevent the emergencies, forestall the disasters before they happened, and catch his younger brother when he fell. He’d never been much good at prevention, but he’d become rather good at resolutions after the fact, as he hoped he’d proven to Sherlock with the Serbs. This venture would be no less dangerous for Sherlock and there would be nothing in Mycroft’s power to fix it should it go awry. It occurred to him that this very sentiment was the very emotional liability he’d always warned Sherlock against. 

He looked out the window of the car, thinking about this, and reflected wryly that perhaps Sherlock was right about it not being a conscious decision sometimes. People cared about the people that mattered. He only hoped that Watson would do the right thing, given proper time, and that if or when he did, Sherlock would have learned how to respond. One could always hope.


End file.
